CULTURE | GENERATION DIFFERENCES | LANGUAGES
The Distance Between My Grandmother and I
It felt as though she were across a valley from me
My grandmother grew up in rural Malaysia, while I in urbanized Singapore. That difference hadn’t really registered in my head until last night.
“University? What do you want to study in university?” my grandmother asked.
We rarely ever converse about my aspirations for my future. In fact, we rarely ever speak about anything outside of a solitary “Have you eaten today?”
My grandmother and I live under the same roof, but we live our own separate lives. We hadn’t fought, just to be clear. These are just the way things are.
So when she asked me about university, I was slightly taken aback. Looking back, I gather that her asking that question was her own way of expressing her unease about the quickness of time passing.
“English Literature,” I answer, uncertain with my broken Mandarin and dialect. In the dim room, I remember the pursing of the lips, the slight furrow of the brow and the fleeting expression of confusion and worry. And I understood that expression immediately. From prior experience with my parents, I grew to expect a response of disapproval.
She asked what I could do with a Literature degree. Teacher, perhaps? I shake my head.
“I want to be a writer,” I said, except I didn’t say “writer.” I said the word “author”, which carries a different sort of nuance in Mandarin. But I didn’t know a word in Mandarin for just “writer.”
She didn’t understand — and so I began to explain. I explained in a defensive manner, as I had been conditioned to do when I was met with disapproval. I wanted to convince her, to tell her of my lofty dreams — to study a subject I cared deeply about, to travel the world and learn about people and places.
But how could I speak my mind when the language barrier was like a rift between her and me? I couldn’t find the right words in Mandarin. My aspirations which came so easily to me in English failed me when I tried to communicate them in another language.
When I tried to communicate: “I want to gain a great deal of knowledge,” I spread my arms out as wide as I could, still hoping I could reach farther.
When I wanted to say: “I want to see as many new horizons as possible,” I walked back and forth quickly to indicate travelling and speed. I was exhausted. It felt as though she were across a valley from me, and I was shouting across it trying to reach her.
The puzzled look on her face remained.
She said to me, “I don’t really know. When I was younger, I only wished for a house, something to eat, and a place to work at. I don’t know anything about dreams.”
I was stunned by the simplicity of her words, and by how easily I understood them. At that moment, I understood she didn’t come from a place of disapproval, but that of a lack of understanding. She couldn’t grasp how I could wish for more than survival, because that was all she knew.
Purpose, knowledge and meaning in life couldn’t feed her.
This time, I listened as she told me about her childhood growing up, when money was scarce and food didn’t come by easily. She spoke about simple times, where joy was found in the little things, her mother’s cooking, her first paycheck, her coming home to her children. There was no need for grandiose desires. My grandmother only needed more of what she already had.
I realized we only had one thing in common.
So I too said in simple terms, “I’m going to be happy doing what I do.”
She said quietly, “Really?” and that was that.
The rest of the conversation flowed naturally, we spoke about this and that. Sometimes, I’d notice her brush a tear away when she thought I wasn’t looking, but I didn’t breathe word about it. The night wore on.
Before I left her room, I remember vividly; a smile, a nod of understanding, an “As long as you’re happy.”
